Lest We Forget
by Sunnycanary613
Summary: They were losing too much; too many men were dying. All for a lost cause.


**It's ANZAC day today, and I've been learning about World War 1 and the ANZACs at school, and I wanted to write something for Hetalia, so here it is.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

**~.~**

**~Lest We Forget~**

**~.~**

They wanted his men to fight the Gallipoli campaign. New Zealand immediately agreed—he owed it to Britain; it was his duty as a dominion.

Everyone wanted to fight, at first. Earn some money, wear a uniform, go shoot some bullets . . . Seemed easy enough, and they would return home as heroes. And anyway, the girls liked the uniform, liked the soldiers.

It was all well in training. Learn how to hold a gun, laugh with your mates, learning how to live together. It would be over by Christmas, they said. The war would end by Christmas and they would come home victorious.

The men were waiting at the dock, saying "goodbye" and "I'll write!" and "I love you". Their mothers and wives and sisters fussed over them, adjusting their uniforms one last time, trying to hold back their tears. Younger brothers and sons glared at them jealously, wishing they too could go and fight.

New Zealand stood among the men, watching the soldiers proudly. They were _his_ men—not British clones, but New Zealanders.

The ship's horn sounded, ordering the men to board the vessel. Last words were exchanged, hugs, kisses, tears. And then they stepped onto the boat and waved as it pulled out of the harbour.

They didn't know that for many of them, it would be their last time seeing their families, seeing the country they grew up in.

**~.~**

The boats moved silently in the water. Everything was going as planned—the timing was perfect, the soldiers were quiet. The moon dipped below the horizon, hiding them from prying eyes.

The oars slid in and out of the water in perfect unison, leaving ripples behind in the smooth wake.

And then it all went wrong.

Bullets started flying through the air and hit the water. The man beside New Zealand slumped in his seat. Trying his best to row the boat forwards, New Zealand winced as more and more of his men died. This wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to get to the shore without being seen, get to the shore _alive_.

Some of his men jumped out of the rowboat, hoping to swim to shore. Some drowned, their heavy packs dragging them down to the seabed. Some were hit by bullets.

They reached the shore, scrambling up the slippery rocks. Men ran up the steep slope, wild with fear. Commanders tried to bark out orders, but in the commotion, none were followed. And all this time, the Turks were firing at them.

This wasn't fair, it wasn't a battle. It was a massacre.

**~.~**

They requested evacuation. The campaign was a lost battle; there was no point pushing on. And they were losing men—too many men.

The reply came a couple of days later. The words scratched onto the note sealed their fates, and New Zealand held his breath as the commander opened it.

He read it quickly, his eyes skimming over the words, then looked up, his expression unreadable.

"Boys, it's time to dig in."

**~.~**

New Zealand wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The sun pounded down and his uniform was suffocating him. Flies buzzed around everywhere, getting in the way of the soldiers.

He looked back down to the pit he had dug. Digging the trenches was boring and uneventful, but they had to do it if they didn't want to be shot.

Beside him, his men were also digging, hoping the Turks wouldn't see them while they were still vulnerable. Ignoring the blisters forming on his hands, he gripped his shovel and dug down.

**~.~**

Gunshots. Cries as the bullets hit their target. Somewhere in the distance, a bomb.

New Zealand gritted his teeth, squinting against the rain. The trenches were slippery with mud and the stench of urine and sweat and dirt and _death_ filled the air.

Another explosion, this time closer. Shrapnel flew in the air, falling around the trenches. Shouts and screams as the metal pierced skin.

This wasn't what he had signed up for. Where was the glory, the fame? He knew he would have to fire at the enemy, he would be shot at, but he didn't expect _this_.

England was the one to blame for all the deaths. England was the one who sat in his tent all day, never coming out to the front line, never experiencing how hard it was to watch his men die and not being able to do anything about it. Deep down, New Zealand knew he was being unfair. It wasn't _really_ England's fault. And he couldn't blame Turkey either. This was war, it was no one's and everyone's fault.

He knew his brother was going through the same. Living in the trenches day after day after day, watching their men fall around them. The men that they had trained with, ate with, lived with. The men who he knew the names of, every single one of them. The men he had sent to their death.

The wind howled, and New Zealand shivered. His uniform—the uniform he had once be so proud of—was soaked and stained with dirt and blood. The men around him were trying to sleep, and so was he, but how could he? How could he sleep, with the constant bombs and bullets and threat of death?

They told him the war would be over by Christmas, they would return home back to their families, back to their country. He wanted to believe them.

But how could he, when reality was right in front of him?

**~.~**

"Uniform inspection!" A gruff British voice called out the order and the soldiers rushed around to get into order. New Zealand rolled his eyes. This was war, they could die any day, and the British cared about _uniform?_

He saw England walking down the trench, his green eyes picking out every little detail of the soldiers. When he came in front of New Zealand, he narrowed his eyes.

"Your men have no respect for me at all! They don't salute when authority passes, their uniform is in horrible condition and they are so . . ." he paused, as if searching for a word, "uncivilised."

New Zealand glared at him. "You're sending them out to their deaths every day, of course they won't respect your authority."

England huffed and walked away without a word and carried on inspecting the men's uniforms.

New Zealand turned away, rolling his eyes again.

**~.~**

Snow drifted down, making everything seem mystical and somehow peaceful. No one from either side had fired yet. It could have been a morning anywhere in the world.

They were offered a truce, which the ANZACs had accepted. After all, it was Christmas. It seemed wrong to be fighting on Christmas day.

Someone took out a football. Soldiers from both sides of no-man's land climbed out of the trenches and started up a game. They would forget about the war, forget about fighting, even if it was only for one day.

New Zealand also climbed out of the trench and watched the men playing. His brother was there, kicking the ball with enthusiasm, his face split with a wide grin. And on the other side, the masked nation, Turkey, dove in and kicked the ball out from Australia's feet.

The men looked like they were having a good time.

They would go back to fighting the next day.

**~.~**

New Zealand walked along the upturned earth. Too many lives had been lost, too many had suffered for a lost cause.

He glanced around the graves. They all had families to get back to, had lives in front of them. But now they were dead.

The gunshots had eased for today, a temporary truce had been called. He was glad for the absence of bullets, of death, even if it was for only eight hours.

He looked up and was surprised to see Turkey bowing his head over a fresh grave. His boots sank a little in the dirt as he walked over to stand beside the other nation. They stood together in silence, neither of them exchanging words, but both of them understanding.

Glancing down to the grave, New Zealand was surprised to see a single red poppy waving slightly in the breeze. Its petals were red, like the blood spilt over this land, but it seemed innocent somehow.

Without a word, he walked away, leaving the Turk to honour his dead in solitude.

**~.~**

The sun climbed over the horizon, lightening up the sky. The memorial stood against the skyline, silhouetted by the sun. A crowd of people stood and watched as the ceremony started.

New Zealand looked around, smiling proudly when he saw the medals his people wore—medals from their fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers, husbands, and occasionally, a man who fought in the battle was there himself. These were _his_ people that fought at Gallipoli, _his_ people that pushed on even when it was obviously a lost battle.

There were poppies everywhere, too. They lay on the steps to the memorial, around the memorial, and more people were putting down their poppies.

A hundred years later, and people were still remembering that night when the landing went wrong, when the battle was fought. Still honouring the bravery and courage the soldiers showed.

ANZAC day brought back painful memories, but it also brought back the good ones. The smiles his men wore, the occasional truces when they would make friends with the Turks, the football game on Christmas day. The red poppy blooming on the grave. The soldiers will always be remembered, always be honoured, always respected. And New Zealand will never stop remembering.

_Lest we forget._

**~.~**

**ANZAC day is celebrated every 25th April in New Zealand, Australia and Turkey, as well as some other countries that fought at Gallipoli. This year it has been 100 years since the boats first landed at Gallipoli. The last section is based on a ceremony that takes place today, but I can't go, so I just made up what I thought it would be like.**

**The Gallipoli campaign was to seize Gallipoli and knock the Ottoman Empire out of the war. The men were unused to the harsh terrain, and the campaign lasted for nine months.**


End file.
